


Half Truths

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:18:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohinder tries to call the shots with Sylar</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half Truths

**Author's Note:**

> Written for cellshader's prompt: "Manipulation"
> 
> Credit to Tom Fontana and "Oz" for inspiring this particular story.

_“I did what you asked! Do you know what that means? Mohinder, do you know what that cost me?” _

Of course Mohinder knew the price he had daringly demanded Sylar pay. That was the whole point. If Sylar was truly repentant (as he said he was) for the havoc he had made of Mohinder’s life it was going to take a lot more than a muted sorry to turn the page.

And Sylar _had _swallowed (correction, he had _choked down_) his pride and confessed his trespasses in front of all of them, at Mohinder’s suspicious order. His silver tongue glistened with the bitter truth and though most knew he truly regretted none of it (except, possibly, for the pain he had caused Mohinder) the very act of his confession was a sight to behold.

Sylar’s vulnerability on display in front of everyone, going against every natural survival instinct he had, thrummed through Mohinder’s body like an electric current. That he could command this of Sylar, that Sylar would do this for him, was the incentive to push further, take more; give more. Within the curved words of an unspoken understanding they were both looking for more, but whether it was the same thing was the unacknowledged question.

Mohinder could hazard a guess at what dictated Sylar’s altered course. What had once been seen as a tactic of all encompassing power took on a new shape under the scrutiny of the reflective spotlight. Mohinder saw the way Sylar watched his every move, even when he was in the middle of a tense confrontation with a potentially violent operative or in the midst of a strongly worded conversation with Peter. Mohinder could be near the far wall behind him and Sylar would turn slightly, still keeping his obvious attention on the person across from him while using his body to silently angle Mohinder into the newly created triangle.

When he did rest his own eyes on Mohinder the gaze was intense and unflinching. It frightened Mohinder and made him feel as if he was never more wanted, never more present, than when Sylar was looking at him. It lit an unparalleled aphrodisiac of mastery in Mohinder. Finally, he had something to play with.

The big demands were easy to spit out and Sylar slapped them back with unrelenting vigor. Mohinder laid them out on the table and Sylar smirked his amused disbelief. As was to be expected. That was part of what kept Mohinder intrigued and unwaveringly involved—even when Sylar was in pursuit of something and stuck in an indefinite spiral of compromise, he was never pathetic. Frustrated, annoyed, restrained—yes, but never pleading, broken, or useless.

Mohinder’s insistence that Sylar stop killing all together was met with an exaggerated eye roll and halting chuckle that told him to mind his manners. Sylar was repentant, not castrated, after all. More importantly it allowed them the painfully acceptable middle ground where they could both feel like they had sacrificed too much of themselves while still basking in a sense of accomplishment. Sylar continued to kill but the people he hunted were considered legitimate casualties, okayed losses, and persons certainly not to be missed.

Sylar seethed at the constraints placed upon him while grinning manically at each new power that clicked into place as his brain rewired and rewrote itself. Mohinder lamented the increasing dead while appreciating that the world was safer without the multitude of dangerous predators who would rip it apart. One predator was enough, especially one he could maneuver around.

Standing before Mohinder, Sylar would hold up purposely blood-stained hands (so unnecessary since he could kill cleanly but the gesture made the point), and cock that ‘what are you going to do about it?’ grin, but he also stayed within the settled upon rules and regulations. Mohinder learned to redefine what constituted a win. The fact that Sylar’s murders could be quantified was enough for the others to see a somewhat changed man.

Sylar despised that assumption of his easily demanded submission, that much Mohinder could read in the tension that emanated off of his rigidly held shoulders, a perfectly straight line across as if both sides were held up by invisible marionette strings. He could see the slight flicker of Sylar’s eyelids over coal black irises and the pursed lips that suggested a torrent of words were being barricaded back. But as long as he was restocking his arsenal of powers and remaining in Mohinder’s good graces he continued along.

For his part Mohinder kept a cool head and engaged in increasingly cordial conversations. Another minute of politeness here, another hour of comfortably shared quiet there, and a lull of movement forward settled around them like a blanket—sometimes it was exactly right, other times it was too much and Mohinder had to push and twist his way out from under it.

He kept his eye on the ball. Or at least he tried to. Giving Sylar an inch, however, translated into a stolen mile that Sylar never missed a chance to collect.

Tentatively, not out of nervousness but curiosity, Sylar pushed further across the invisible barrier. And Mohinder let him. It was a test with them. Always. Not so innocently standing next to each other, a slight brush of shoulders for the briefest second, led to more blatant hovering with Sylar turned towards Mohinder who rested his arms across his chest and either ignored Sylar or turned in his direction and then just as quickly walked away with an indifferent glance.

Forward, back, side, together.

Sylar was never put off or put out. He would simply smile knowingly and go about his business, staying away (maybe talking to Peter, but always watching, or going over the information in an old file) until he was ready or tempted to push forward again.

Rarely, then more frequently, Sylar became bolder. He would grab Mohinder’s shoulder as he walked by or push his fingers against Mohinder’s when they exchanged a document. It was all small, precise steps. Mohinder entertained the attention for his own calculating enjoyment. He reveled in drawing Sylar in, letting him get comfortable and relieved at the tiny victory, before ripping the rug out from under him. He snapped hard words (“Get your fucking hands off me!”) at Sylar, glared him down, shoved him away and scoffed his disgust.

The sight of Sylar fuming behind a restrained but volatile countenance—arms stiff at his side, his head tilted forward and glaring his eyes upwards, his chest heaving with anger up and down as air was forced in and out—was exactly what Mohinder wanted. As far as he was concerned the least that Sylar deserved after everything was to feel like he was freefalling, denied, pitied, ridiculed.

But denial was a complicated monster. Allowing Sylar the taste of being closer then forcing him back was as much an issue of Mohinder’s unfortunate feelings. He felt the heat of Sylar’s body invading the surface of his skin and breathed in his intoxicating scent of soap and pheromones. Mohinder hated that his own hesitations were half act and half want.

He suspected Sylar knew that.

Sylar’s most personal gesture, and it was one he thankfully kept away from the invasive eyes of the others (probably to spare himself the potential humiliation of being publicly rejected) was to lightly rest his hand along the back of Mohinder’s neck, softly touching his fingers in nearly ticklish circles along his skin while they either discussed something totally unrelated or a heavy silence hung between them. No matter the extreme emotion that preceded it there was always a response. It was not a possessive action or antagonistically aggressive, but it was incredibly confident. And it took Mohinder’s breath away.

He deliberately kept himself from melting into the touch and turning his body in towards Sylar’s, curving against the contours of his shape and resting his forehead in the bend of neck and shoulder. He fought to not imagine Sylar stroking the back of his neck with one hand while wrapping the other around him, holding their bodies close together, then pressing a smile just below his ear.

He had almost fallen for that perfectly constructed manipulation before. He would not be led astray again. He felt the spark of skin on skin and remained unmoved, sure that Sylar was at once enjoying his attempt to play ignorant while simultaneously seeking the permission to go even further.

Mohinder’s refusal to do so was a card he kept in his back pocket, at the ready to be used at any time. But it proved more and more difficult to shrug Sylar off without battling his own conflicting demons.

One day it wasn’t so tentative but fluid, an unapologetic taking of the moment. It had gotten to the point where Mohinder could anticipate Sylar’s impending approach. Still, he was quicker than expected and Mohinder nearly folded under the feel of Sylar’s hand grasping the back of his neck. He _would _have given in if not for Sylar, hand still steady, moving in on his right and leaning forward to place a heated kiss at the outside corner of his mouth.

Shock (_desire_) ratcheted through Mohinder’s body. His eyes grew wide and he forcefully shrugged his right shoulder up and back. “No,” he said incredulously, stepping away.

Sylar raised a half smile under a jovially raised eyebrow, absolutely undeterred, and pulled Mohinder towards him by his neck, trying for another kiss.

“No!” Mohinder’s heart raced at how out of control the situation nearly was. He raised both hands and shoved Sylar back as hard as he could. Swallowing awkwardly, Mohinder turned towards the desk where his laptop lay open, but Sylar’s strong arms spun him back around. Sylar grabbed two handfuls of Mohinder’s shirt and forced him back on his feet until he hit the wall.

Sylar jutted one leg between Mohinder’s thighs, forcing them apart and pushed between them. His eyes were narrowed in irritation and disbelief, the wrinkles of befuddlement that scored his forehead found their companion in the tight lines that detailed his clenched jaw. Mohinder felt the force of Sylar’s grip against his chest, sure to leave a mark, and the unmistakable pressure of his half hard erection against his own.

Sylar’s black eyes searched Mohinder’s and he fisted the shirt tighter. “I did what you asked,” he spit out angrily.

_I know you did. _

“Do you know what that means?”

_You can follow orders. You take your time with every meticulous con. _

You **_do_**_love me.   
_  
“Mohinder, do you know what that cost me?”

_Pride. Self-respect. The fearful pain in others that you worked so hard to instill in the first place. The illusion that Sylar and Gabriel are separate entities. _

My awe.   
  
A sharp edged insult halted at the back of Mohinder’s throat at the unexpected hint of a plea in Sylar’s tone. There was a hint of brokenness in the way his voice caught and turned up at the end even though it was partially covered over by venomous exasperation.

Mohinder closed his eyes and willed away the urge to wrap his legs around Sylar’s waist, grinding against him while pulling him into a deep kiss. He shut down the part of his mind that flashed images of being pinned against the wall while Sylar thrust steadily into him, their eyes locked, their lips hovering the tiniest space between them until they had to taste each other. Mohinder refused the rumble in his groin that followed a rapid thought of Sylar coming inside him and his own release spilling up between them, marking their chests, and them pressed together in a tight embrace.

“I don’t trust you.” Mohinder opened his eyes and met Sylar’s. “I don’t forgive you for anything.”

Sylar tilted his head quizzically and pulled back slightly.

“Why would I?” Mohinder continued. “_How_ could I? What you’ve done—the pain you’ve caused with pleasure. Why would I allow myself to think you any different now?”

Sylar loosened his grip on Mohinder’s shirt but did not let go. “I did what was needed to prove to you I’ve changed.”

Mohinder scoffed and shoved Sylar back, his already loosened grip working against him, finally separating their bodies.

“Changed? You still murder.”

“With your complete knowledge,” Sylar stated, waving one hand in the air. “And theirs. Don’t act as if the people I’ve killed are innocent. They needed to be stopped and I’m the only one who could do it. I’m doing the job none of you has the strength of body and mind to.”

Mohinder stood up straight and fixed his shirt in place. “Peter asked—,”

“No.”

Confused, Mohinder furrowed his brow then started again. “Peter asked—,”

“No!”

It was emphatic and Sylar’s blistering stare commanded Mohinder to rectify his words.

“_I _asked you—but—,” Mohinder began to walk away then stopped short and, biting his bottom lip, said, “You _enjoy _it.”

Sylar swiftly covered the space between them in three strides. His expression was stern with a trace of humour in the slightly upturned corners of his mouth. “I stayed within the necessary boundaries. But you don’t get to dictate how I feel or why I do it.”

Sylar stepped to Mohinder’s right side and leaned in close so that his words vibrated against Mohinder’s ear. “Maybe you should take a little look at yourself before you pass judgment on who I am. At least I’m being honest about what I’m willing to do and what I want.”

“And what would that be?” Mohinder tried to sound uncaring and bored.

Sylar shifted back on his heels and held Mohinder’s questioning gaze. “I would think that was fairly obvious.”

In the turn of his movement, Mohinder considered that Sylar might make a grab for the front of his pants, presenting into evidence what they both already knew unofficially. Mohinder flinched away defensively but Sylar was already walking away, his form tall and strong from behind, shoulders squared and arms casually hanging at his side.

Mohinder wondered if there was any relevancy to honesty. Would it accomplish anything or simply be another thing held against him at a later time. No, Sylar could not walk away like that.

“Hating you—,”

Mohinder called out and paused.

_And loving you _

“That’s all we have.”

His words stop Sylar’s exit. Better yet, for Mohinder, the honesty of his tone registered truth in Sylar’s brain. He watched Sylar look over his left shoulder at him with confused and (dare he say) hurt questioning apparent in his angled down brows and parted lips.

Mohinder said no more. He let the silence drive home his point and quietly sighed his relief when Sylar continued on his way out. He had Sylar back where he needed him to be.

Hate.

But it was only half their story.   
 

**Author's Note:**

> Heroes Slash Awards  
> **Best Mohinder Characterization**


End file.
